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He shrugs, starting to head west, and I take in the coat of roses he’s wearing, his black coat. “Answering a call. Making a deal.”
It hits me like a thump in the chest. How easy it is to forget that I’m not the only one of Ruskin Blackcoat’s hapless business partners. He’s famous for a reason—roaming Styrland tempting people into bargains they always seem to regret, appearing at the moment anyone is desperate enough to speak the rhyme—and to call on Ruskin, they’d have to be desperate. Given he’s not limited to market days, I can only assume he makes more deals than anyone—preys on more people than even the treacherous High Fae who laughed as I danced against the thorns, or who chased me through this forest.
He isn’t like them, Eleanor, I remind myself as I follow him back to the palace. He’s worse.
Chapter 15
The next day when I wake, I find two bunches of bluecups in vases beside my bed. I shiver at the thought of Ruskin in my room while I slept. Two days ago, I might’ve felt fear about being so vulnerable around him, but now my mind goes straight to the memory of how I responded to our proximity in the woods. The prospect of closeness to him is unsettlingly enticing.
I’ve never experienced this before—my body responding to someone despite all the warnings from my head. I find myself increasingly aware of his every move when I’m around him, even as I dissect each word for the cruelty I know lives within them—within him.
How cavalier he sounded yesterday when talking about the deals he makes. Answering calls. Making deals.
Ruining lives.
He’s ruined my life, after all. Stolen me away when he could’ve returned me home to my father’s arms. My father, who even now might be struggling to feed himself, losing the will to go on, alone in our drafty cottage without the faintest idea of where I am or whether I still live at all.
As I swing my legs out of the four-poster, I assure myself the situation is not going to stay that way. I need to keep putting my focus on finding the answers that really matter—how I’m going to get home. That’s only going to happen if I find a way out of Ruskin’s deal. Right now, my experiments are the best way forward.
I slip into my dress and snatch up the bluecups, heading to the workshop. Halima falls into step behind me the moment I come through my bedroom door, a silent sentinel.
“Did you hear what happened yesterday?” I ask, not looking at her.
“Yes.”
“Did Destan get in trouble?”
“No.”
“I just love how chatty you are, Halima. It really sets a girl at ease, you know?”
The swordswoman gives me a long look.
We’d found Destan on the outskirts of the forest yesterday, looking absolutely frantic until he saw me with Ruskin. At that point the poor man had practically thrown himself on his knees before Ruskin and asked for forgiveness. The prince had offered a silky-smooth response, saying no apology was necessary, but on our way back to the palace there was still tension in Ruskin’s shoulders, and he kept on looking at me sideways like he thought I’d disappear. It made me worried he was angrier about the situation than he let on.
And still, despite that glower and my worry, I’d dreamed about him. I can’t control my mind when I’m asleep, and it doesn’t seem to care about how he may or may not have ruined my life, and the lives of countless others. It only cares about the feeling of his hands on me in the forest, his strong arm around my waist and the press of his chest against mine.
And his voice is there too, whispering things to me that would be absurd if I said them aloud. Because it’s not just his body that calls to me, it’s his mind. It’s impossible to deny that Ruskin is clever—razor sharp and often dangerously perceptive. He has to be, I guess, to keep this court in line, playing a complicated game, as I saw at the dinner. He’s worlds away from the idiocy of Albrecht and the simplicity of Thatch, and somehow when he turns his attentions on me, I feel he sees me as I want to be seen: someone with their wits about them, like him, not some stupid girl playing with her toys. It’s an attractive thought.
The problem is, my imagination seems bent on taking it all a step further. His hands were…in other places in my dream. His mouth was doing things I’ve never experienced before—never even fantasized about. Although, to be fair, my experience is somewhat limited. There was a boy once, nearly three years ago—a carpenter’s apprentice I met at the market. He’d come to sell his wares like me, and eventually the pleasantries turned to friendship. He admired my work, impressed that I was self-taught, and I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t flattered by his compliments. Soon we started meeting up after the market too, delaying our journeys home to spend time alone. He was eager, insistent, and I was not averse to finding out what everyone made such a big deal about—that thing men and women supposedly did behind closed doors. It was nice enough, but I didn’t find myself as keen to repeat the experience as him. When he stopped coming to the market and his replacement told me he’d been promoted to full-fledged carpenter, I was pleased for him. But I was also not as disappointed as I’d expected that our dalliance had come to an end.
I’ve barely thought about wanting someone like that since. Until now, when I can scarcely seem to look at Ruskin without my thoughts going to tantalizing, sensual places. I know it’s ridiculous, and I throw myself into my work, grinding up the bluecups and distilling the mulch down into a liquid I can mix with other materials. Halima, meanwhile, happily sharpens her sword in the corner.
That’s when Destan arrives, showing not a hint of the anxiety he was riddled with yesterday, and brandishing something in swirling shades of teal and poppy red.
“What is that?” I say, looking at the flimsy bit of organza.
“Your dress,” Destan says, like it’s obvious. “For the Harvest Moon Ball.”
The palace has been preparing for the party for days, but I never thought I’d be involved in it.
“That’s not a dress, that’s a piece of fishing net! You can see straight through it!”
Destan tuts, holding the gown—if you could use the word—out for me to get a better look at. I can see now that beneath the transparent fabric there are panels of more opaque material, but just enough to cover my breasts, pelvis, and backside.
“I never understood you humans’ prudishness when it comes to your own bodies,” he says, eyeing me up curiously.
“We’re not prudish, we just don’t go around putting everything on display. If I did that, then people would think…”
